


Diner Date

by Miss_Snazzy



Category: Deadpool (2016), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Antagonism, But no follow-through so don't worry, Canon Divergence - Post Teen Wolf Season 3b, Deadpool being Deadpool, Deadpool thinks Stiles is a cutie, M/M, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Rated for Deadpool's Language, Stiles is awkward but interested, Stiles takes a break from Beacon Hills, Threats of Violence, Touch-Starved Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 07:24:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10509081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Snazzy/pseuds/Miss_Snazzy
Summary: Deadpool gasps like a maiden about to faint, complete with a hand splayed across his chest."What kind of lady do you take me for?" Deadpool demands.  Stiles stares until the silence oppresses him enough to open his mouth— "Everyone knows you save eye color for the third date—right after anal play."Stiles chokes and asks, a bit wildly, "What's a first date, then?"





	

Stiles needs a break.

This is the general consensus following the whole Nogitsune mess.

Having his mind overtaken by an evil spirit while said puppeteer kept his eyelids peeled back to count the bodies as they fell—well.  It left the kind of impression that couldn’t be fluffed out with a good, arms clasped to back, hug.

Not with his hands so soaked in blood.

Stiles curls his fingers around his mug of fresh coffee and tries to ignore the burn of hot porcelain against too cool skin. He's fine. He has a plate of damn good curly fries at his elbow and he's fine.

He takes a long drag of coffee that his tongue says is hot, even if it does little to curb the perpetual chill that has become his norm since he clawed his way out of a pool of shadows puked up on the McCall living room floor.

So maybe the break is warranted, Stiles thinks with a grimace.

Aside from his forced sabbatical in a town just five hours outside the Hellmouth that is Beacon Hills, he can’t complain.  Cousin Roy spends most of his time hunting or fishing at the creek deep in the woods curled around his house.  He cares little for Stiles’s day-to-day activities, as long as he keeps out of trouble.

Stiles even has his own room for the duration.  Sure, the bedroom looks like a shrine to his third cousin’s once beloved Hello Kitty, but the mattress cups his body nice in all the right places.  Which is super important when you trade REM for watching a light show play out on the ceiling.

So, not terrible.  Certainly not the worst family vacay he’s suffered.  Minus the family.

Just…. Hard not to feel shitty about things when Melissa McCall suggests a change of scenery while the hospital he terrorized gets a little TLC.

Stiles shoves a few curly fries in his mouth, ignoring the clash of salty and bitter.  Coffee coating aside, his taste buds feel made love to.  He sweeps his next fries into the smear of ketchup on his plate and relishes that burst of sweet heat.  The bell above the diner dings and his eyes flick up, automatic, before returning back to his plate.

Stiles jerks his head back up and gapes.

A man in a full body suit—a red and black leather body suit, if we’re getting specific—trails after his waitress to the booth in front of him like stopping for a quick milkshake while in combat gear is a thing people do.

And the waitress seems unperturbed, which, actually, kind of disturbs him more.  The man has guns, knives, and a pair of katanas strapped to his person and this woman, Doris, just directs him to his seat with a menu and a blurb about pancake specials?

Stiles has been on the wrong end of enough weapons to know the difference between Halloween plastic and metal.  The weapons on this man look authentic, and if they are, then the man behind that iconic mask...

"No one teach you that it's rude to stare?” the man asks, voice deep yet almost playful.  Stiles can’t help but notice the way he has tensed, despite the veneer of amusement.  “The suit might not leave much to the imagination, but this ain’t a free show.”  The man leans across his table and tilts his head, squinting.  Stiles tries not to squirm.  “You wanna book one, I can give you the number,” the man continues, a grin clear in his voice, “ it’s: three-six-nine, damn-yer-fiii-iiiine.”

Stiles swallows the strangled sound climbing up his throat and lifts his hands, keeping his palms open.

"Sorry, it's just—you're Deadpool."

The Merc With The Mouth.  The contract killer who sometimes falls Avengers-adjacent, whom the Daily Bugle loves trashing almost as much as Spiderman and—oh my god, did Stiles fall asleep during a Google search binge or what?

Deadpool hums in a drawn out noise full of a few too many ah's for a family establishment and Stiles flails a little because when did the guy relocate to the other side of his booth?  A literal superhero—or antihero, as the case may be—is sitting across from him, close enough to poke in his broad chest and Stiles isn’t supposed to be poking, okay, this is supposed to be a break from the crazy, not—

"What gave it away?  Was it the baby blues?"

Deadpool props his chin on his hands and somehow Stiles just knows he’s fluttering  his eyelashes behind the mask.

"Are they blue?" Stiles pokes because apparently restraint remains a foreign concept, even as his lizard brain squirms.

He remembers reading about how you’re not supposed to look a Rottweiler in the eyes, but he can’t stop staring into the white ovals where Deadpool’s should be.

Deadpool gasps like a maiden about to faint, complete with a hand splayed across his chest.

"What kind of lady do you take me for?" Deadpool demands.  Stiles stares until the silence oppresses him enough to open his mouth— "Everyone knows you save eye color for the third date—right after anal play."

Stiles chokes and asks, a bit wildly, "What's a first date, then?"

Deadpool walks his gloved fingers up Stiles's arm and Stiles tries not to tense or flinch at the way his skin tingles even through the dual barrier of flannel and leather.

"You'll know it when it happens, sugar plum,” Deadpool near croons.

Stiles gapes.  Is...is Deadpool flirting with him?  Is this a thing that is actually happening, or has Stiles blacked out again?

Doris the waitress places a strawberry milkshake between them complete with two straws already bent for their convenience and what the fuck is this lady, honestly?

“Might want to close that mouth before we get kicked out for indecent exposure.”  Deadpool flaps a hand at Stiles.  “I mean, daaamn, that’s just obscene.  Did I say indecent?  Lies and slander.  Nothing more decent and wholesome than a pretty twink with his mouth hanging open.”  A strangled sound squeaks out of Stiles’s throat.  Deadpool hums.  “Now this here?  This is where things get reeeeal indecent.”

Stiles snaps his mouth shut and watches Deadpool roll his mask up to his nose.  His skin has severe scarring over every bit that Stiles can see, but his jaw remains strong, his lips cracked and chapped where they wrap around his straw, slurping.

Barring that last detail, Stiles recognizes an uncomfortable amount of similarities between Deadpool and the version of Peter he first met in the hospital what seems ages ago.

Stiles tries not to think about how well that ended.

“See, I thought we went over this,” Deadpool sighs and Stiles watches the way the scars around his mouth pull and bunch with the movement of his lips.

Stiles snaps his gaze back to the white eyes of the mask when Deadpool leans forward.

“Keep staring,” Deadpool offers in a light tone, “and you’re gonna give me a complex.  Aaaand,” he leans closer still, enough for them to share the same breath, “a dirty knife to clean.”

Stiles stares into the white eyes of Deadpool’s mask and feels...tired.

This is supposed to be a break.  An evil spirit just spent weeks making him ride piggyback in his own body and fuck.  Stiles just wanted some damn curly fries.  Which are definitely cold by now, he thinks.

Stiles clenches his hands on top of the table.  Guess some of the stories about Deadpool were true.

Another sociopath trying to intimidate me, Stiles thinks, weary.

“I’m not afraid of you or your knife.”

“Oh?” Deadpool drawls, tilting his head.  “Knives don’t do it for you?  Don’t normally let them pick, but for you, Sweet Pea, I could give you the full package,” he leers, aiming a finger gun between Stiles’s eyes.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a gun in my face,” Stiles sneers.

Deadpool stills and his mouth slackens from its amused turn.  Stiles glares.

“Ooooh,” Deadpool squeals and Stiles flinches back, blinking as Deadpool props his chin on one fist, while the other hand reaches for a curly fry.  “Sounds like there’s a story there.  C’mon, let’s dish,” Deadpool insists, chewed potatoes peeking through his teeth.

“How about not,” Stiles returns, off-kilter at the abrupt shift.

“Aw, why not?” Deadpool whines, dragging each word out.

Stiles raises an eyebrow.

“You just threatened me.”

Deadpool flaps a hand.

“Just a bit of foreplay between us girls,” Deadpool dismisses, reaching for another handful of curly fries.

Stiles slides the plate toward the window before glove can reach porcelain.

“Then you’ve really gotta work on your technique.”

“Ooh, burn,” Deadpool coos.  “You are such.  A.  Cutie.”

Stiles drags a hand down his face, feeling heat gather in his cheeks.

“And now you’re blushing!” Deadpool shrieks, pointing his finger in accusation.

“No, I’m not,” Stiles insists.

Stiles tries to knock the finger out of his face, gaze sweeping across the other customers in the diner.  He can feel the heat worsen with each pair of eyes he meets.

"Are you coming onto me?” Deadpool breathes, the white eyes of his mask somehow narrowing in suspicion.  “Is Chris Hansen hiding in the back?  Because if you two are trying to trap me in a threesome, then the least you could do is let me be the cream in this bleached out Oreo."

“No, I’m—what the fuck,” Stiles squeaks, staring back at Deadpool in disbelief. 

What is happening, Stile wonders.

“Well, it looks like you’re trying to seduce me, but I’ve been out of the dating scene for a while, so what do I know,” Deadpool answers, tugging his mask over his chin.  “Can’t say I’m not flattered, really, but I think you’re a little young for me.”

“I’m eighteen,” Stiles blurts, and wants to smack himself.  “I mean—no, I wasn’t coming onto you, I just—”

“Eighteen, huh?  Still kinda young, but less of a deal-breaker.”  Deadpool hums, considering.  “Okay.  You’ve convinced me.  One date.”

Stiles gapes.

“What?”

“I’m on a job right now—shouldn’t take long.”  Deadpool slaps a wad of bills onto the table.  “After that, I’m all yours.”

Stiles watches Deadpool slide out of the booth.

“Uh…”

Deadpool leans over and Stiles can feel his eyes widen when gloved fingers cup his chin.  Stiles closes his mouth but otherwise remains still, uncertain whether he wants to lean into the warm leather or jerk away.

“Careful,” Deadpool murmurs, the white eyes of his mask so close Stiles can’t look away.  “Never know what might find its way in there.”

Weird, Stiles thinks, the words are weird, but finds himself swallowing around a lump in his throat anyway.

Deadpool straightens and Stiles lists just a hair forward before jerking himself back into place.

“What’s your name?” Deadpool asks, voice just a bit lower than before.

“Uh...Stiles.”

The reply falls out of his mouth with little input from his brain.

“Well, Stiles,” Deadpool murmurs, his smile audible.  “I’ll be seeing you.”

Stiles watches Deadpool turn and stride out of the diner and, though he flails toward the blinds in record time, loses track of that iconic red and black frame in the interim.

When Deadpool refrains from popping back into view, Stiles slumps back into his booth and stares at the literal wad of bills on the table in front of him before trading that view in favor of counting his fingers under the table.  Ten.

“My sister does flower arrangements,” Doris offers, and Stiles flails in his seat, wondering when the hell she snuck up on him.

“What?” Stiles asks, squinting up at her.

Doris stands beside his booth with the same apathetic expression she wore when offering a fully armed mercenary the pancake special.

“Tell her Doris sent you,” Doris taps her name tag, nudging a dishwater curl back over her shoulder, “and Sally’ll give you a discount.”

Stiles watches Doris pull a business card from her apron and place it on the table.

“Buds For Your Love Bug,” Stiles reads aloud.  “I don’t—”

But when he looks up, Doris has moved onto a new table, refilling mugs with fresh coffee.

**Author's Note:**

> Chronologically, this was actually my first foray into the pairing.  
> I'm so glad to have finally finished it.  
> Hope you guys like it.
> 
> Might write a sequel to this, motivation, energy, and time pending.


End file.
